


Probably Explode or Something

by politeanarchy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley Has Scales (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Demonic forms, Fluff and Crack, Flying, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mistakes were made, Morning After, Other, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Quarantine, Sex Pollen, Shapeshifting, Showers, Unintentional Miracles, Wings, body horror maybe?, briefly-threatened non-con which doesn't actually ever come close to happening, gender weirdness for fun and profit, going for more humor than angst, gratuitous use of Bible references, if eldritch condition persists for more than 24 hours please consult a quantum physician, it may be horrible but they're both into it, the Full Milton, these tags are getting out of hand, they do at least try to talk about it first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politeanarchy/pseuds/politeanarchy
Summary: A lonely human tries a bit of demon-summoning for company during the lockdown, and pulls Crowley away from his nap. Aziraphale naturally feels he cannot allow this sort of unsuitable behavior, and goes to the rescue. Unfortunately, he doesn't pay quite enough attention to the details, and gets himself (and Crowley) into an awkward situation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 237





	1. In the beginning was the word, and the word was 'Oops'

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Fair warning: I can't make any promises about if or when this might update. I know how it's supposed to end, and I have some pieces of the middle written, but I'm a very slow and unreliable writer, and current circumstances aren't helping.~~
> 
> I've managed to finish this thing. Go me.

Aziraphale was reading cookbooks and wondering if he should attempt foccacia when there was a jarring _twang_ from the aether.

Normally, this was the kind of thing he would notice and ignore, as being background noise similar to the Soho traffic outside the bookshop. But this had been quite loud, and judging by the harmonics, it concerned Crowley in some way. Aziraphale closed his cookbook thoughtfully and reached out with non-human senses, as though sniffing the wind.

Hmm. Yes, something occult had been done to Crowley. It hadn't originated with him, and didn't seem strong enough to have come directly from Heaven or Hell, therefore the chances were good that he had been summoned. Probably by a human. Some foolish mortal hoping to liven up their isolation in quarantine?

No doubt he could cope with it adequately by himself. In fact, he would probably welcome the interruption to the hopeless boredom of the past several weeks. There was really no reason for Aziraphale to think he needed to get involved.

Aziraphale picked up his cookbook again and tried to focus on it. Did he have enough olive oil on hand? Plenty of sea salt, so that was all right. If Crowley had been summoned by a human, would they have used sea salt or just the regular kind? Would that make any difference to how difficult it was for him to get himself loose? _All_ salt was sea salt, when you really got down to it, even the discount kind in the least-interesting box.

The cookbook was proving wholly inadequate as a distraction. He snapped it shut, and allowed himself to notice a series of agitated rippling twinges in that part of the atmosphere perceptible only to angels, demons, and the occasional witch. Aziraphale wondered if he had become more sensitive to Crowley since they had borrowed one another's bodies, or if he was only imagining it. In any case, he had to admit to himself that he would really like to investigate what was going on, rather than wasting the rest of the evening wondering. He could tell that whatever-it-was was no more than a few blocks away.

Besides, if a human was summoning demons in the middle of a pandemic, they were probably up to all sorts of no good. If nothing else, it probably counted as a breach of quarantine. It was therefore in line with both his celestial and earthly responsibilities to stop whatever was going on, before it caused trouble. Whether Heaven approved of his efforts or not, if there were demons were involved, he still considered it his job to thwart them.

"But I'm not going to set a bad example by just wandering the streets!" he said firmly, and instead, transported himself to the vicinity of the disturbance with a quick snap of his fingers.

* * *

It appeared to be a modestly-sized flat, with a general atmosphere of unwashed dishes and inadequate laundry. Furniture and miscellaneous clutter had been pushed against the walls to allow space for a large circle of occult symbols to be drawn with chalk in the middle of the room. Inside the circle, Crowley was sulking. Outside the circle there were a few candles; whether these were for ritual purposes or merely for setting the mood was not immediately clear. There was also a set of speakers playing music that Aziraphale couldn't identify.*

"Crowley, are you all right?"

At the sound of the angel's voice, Crowley turned with an irritable flounce. He was wearing a black silk bathrobe over some kind of abbreviated undergarment, and was a much different shape than Aziraphale was used to.

"Oh, my dear, what _has_ happened to you?"

"Nothing much, yet. Relax, angel. I'd be fine if I didn't look like Jessica Rabbit."

"Jessica _who?"_

"A character from a film. Not one you would have seen, I'm sure." Crowley shrugged, not his usual angular movement but a sultry undulation. "Don't worry about it."

Having satisfied himself that Crowley did not appear to be in any imminent danger, Aziraphale turned his attention to other important questions. "Who did this to you? Was it a human?"

"Yeah, some wannabe wizard who's evidently feeling a little lonely in lockdown." Crowley gave a derisive snort. "He ducked into the next room when you turned up. I imagine he wasn't too thrilled at the idea of more company. I hope he's putting some pants on."

Aziraphale's mind reeled a little at the possible implications of this, and then his attention was caught by a furtive suggestion of movement in the doorway. He made a sudden lunge in that direction, there was a brief scuffle, and then Aziraphale reappeared, frog-marching a pale, sullen young man in front of him. Fortunately for everyone concerned, the young man _was_ wearing pants, however grubby and unflattering they may have been.

The angel walked him firmly across the room until he fetched up against a desk, on which was a book open to a diagram of the circle chalked on the floor. At the sight of the book, Aziraphale made a choked-off sound of astonishment, and bristled with righteous indignation.

"This is _my_ book! You were one of the people who tried to rob my shop!" he spat furiously. "You must have picked this up when I was giving cake to your compatriots!"

The young man was clearly not prepared to deal with any of this. This was not how he had anticipated his evening turning out. He merely stood there, gawping helplessly.

Aziraphale was examining the diagram in the book, and the drawing on the floor, while simultaneously continuing to berate the human. "Look, you can see where he's used this set of runes to charge the circle. _You_ should be _extremely_ ashamed of yourself, young man." Aziraphale located the chalk and began scuffing at some of the marks on the floor. "I'm pretty sure I can do _this_ and reverse the charges." He drew busily on the floor for a minute. "The _idea_ of summoning occult entities all willy-nilly, for the purpose of...of... _carnal gratification!"_ He nodded reassuringly at Crowley. "There, once I re-activate the circle it should send you home again. And I trust I will never catch _you_ doing anything of this sort, ever again!"

The pale young man nodded feebly at this, then changed his mind and shook his head vigorously instead.

Aziraphale finished altering the chalk marks, tucked the book firmly under his arm, snapped his fingers decisively, and several things happened at once. The circle activated, with a faint glow and a low hum. Crowley started to shout "Angel, no! Don't step in the—" and Aziraphale stepped into the circle.

Angel and demon disappeared as the aether did its _twanging_ routine again. The young man exhaled slowly and sat down on his floor, vowing to be content with internet porn in the future.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale re-materialized in Crowley's flat, just as Crowley finished saying "...circle. Oh no." He slumped sadly onto his couch, pulling the silk robe around himself.

"I wanted to make sure you got home all right. I suppose it _is_ breaking quarantine, although there shouldn't be any way for us to infect that human, or for him to infect us."

"It's not that." Crowley's robe had transformed into his more usual clothes, and he slouched into something approximating his usual sprawl, but with an undercurrent of more than the usual tension.

"I suppose I shouldn't have interfered at all, really. Presumptuous of me, to assume you need help extricating yourself from an, er, unsolicited booty call."

Crowley choked on whatever it was he'd been about to say next. "Angel! You can't just— How do you even—"

Aziraphale shot him a knowing smirk. "I work in Soho. I hear things."

"No, but the point is, I have a bad feeling you may have inserted yourself into the summoning ritual, when you did that bit of chalk-work back there."

"Oh. I hadn't thought about that."

"You _didn't_ think about it, did you? You just filled in those runes with your own hand, then powered up the circle. Which, if I'm not mistaken, is what the ritual calls for."

"So? I sent you home. Here you are." Aziraphale sat down on the section of sofa opposite Crowley, and waved his hand in the general direction of the rest of the flat.

"You sent me home, and then _transported yourself here as well._ But it's not just a transport spell. The part you're missing is that _that_ particular ritual compels a demon—or other supernatural entity—to go to some specified place _for a specific purpose._ As you have so helpfully pointed out, it's a _booty call._ And, as a convenient little part of the deal, it fills said supernatural entity with raging uncontrollable lust. While also transforming them physically to make them attractive."

"Oh my. I suppose that explains your unusual appearance, earlier. Um. You're looking much more your normal self now. More, er, streamlined." Aziraphale gestured with one hand, indicating some sort of bodily contour.

Crowley winced, then grinned, or at least adjusted his mouth in such a way that his teeth were visible, tightly clenched together. "Yes. That got reversed, when you swapped the runes around. I'm well out of it, and glad of your interference in this particular case. But then. You summoned _yourself._ Here."

"Wait," said Aziraphale, as the penny finally dropped. "Are you saying that the spell is still in operation, only I'm meant to be the, well let's say the subject of it?"

"Yes," answered Crowley patiently. "That is what I am saying. I am also saying this might count as a problem."

* * *

* Crowley had recognized it as Barry White. This was one of the reasons he was sulking.


	2. the light from the darkness

"But Crowley, I don't think it has affected me. My physical appearance hasn't changed, as far as I can tell." Aziraphale wriggled in his seat, giving his own body a once-over. Crowley tried not to watch too closely.

"It wouldn't, though. In this particular case," Crowley said, keeping his eyes averted.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he muttered reluctantly, "If you're trying to be attractive to the person whose flat you've just been summoned to, you don't need to change a thing."

Aziraphale's smile was radiant enough to power a smallish city for at least a week. "Why, Crowley! How very kind of you."

"So that's not a useful indicator. Maybe it didn't affect you after all. Hard to say. Feeling all right?"

"Fine, I think. It seems a trifle stuffy in here." He loosened his bow tie, letting the ends dangle, and undid the top button of his shirt. "It's probably just because you keep your flat warmer than the bookshop."

As a demon, Crowley could of course sense lust, as well as other potential vices. He would have been unable to explain to a human how he did this, but he had tried a few times to explain it to Aziraphale. The most recent attempt had been sometime in the 1990s, during a long drunken evening, when they were comparing notes on their respective approaches to blessing and tempting.

"It tastes like radio static," he'd said, then shook his head. "No. It's like, it's kind of...it's like, say you had an infinite number of tiny glockenspiels coated in glitter, going over a waterfall."

"I thought you said that was Eurovision," objected Aziraphale, and poured them some more wine.

Whereupon Crowley had given up the explanation as a bad job, and changed the subject. However, the fact remained that he could, theoretically, tell if someone near him was experiencing lust, and that it registered as a sort of bright twinkly sensation.

These occult perceptions were of no use in the presence of Aziraphale, though, because the angel tended to twinkle anyway, and because there was too much interference from his own aura, which lit up like a Christmas tree covered in disco balls.

Crowley didn't want to let himself panic, but he had to admit that he was worried. The last time he'd seen Aziraphale with anything less than fully-deployed neckwear, he'd been a monk.

"If there turns out to be some sort of lingering influence, I'm sure I can just go back to the bookshop and...take a cold shower or something."

"It's no good you trying to be reasonable about it. It doesn't work that way."

"How does it work, then?"

"I'm pretty sure the lust thing starts off gradually and increases over time. The reason I think that is because we're still sitting here talking to each other, instead of ripping off bits of each other's clothing with our teeth."

Aziraphale hardly seemed to be listening, but was instead slowly and methodically rolling up his sleeves. Crowley reminded himself to breathe, and then reminded himself not to breathe like _that._

"As for the details...well, I've never actually been summoned for one of these before, so all I have to go on is locker room gossip. Whatever you can imagine locker room gossip in Hell is like, the reality is worse, I promise."

"I believe you."

Crowley shuddered. "Some of them enjoy it, you know. In the early stages, the demons take on beautiful forms, and do all the usual kinds of things."

"The 'usual kinds of things'...?"

"Come on, you've been around humans all these centuries, you know the stuff they like. Putting body parts together in various combinations. Squishily."

"Right." Now that Aziraphale's sleeves were rolled up, he was leaning back into the cushions, rolling his head from side to side and stretching his neck. Crowley gulped, and tried to focus on what he was saying. Not that it helped much, given the subject matter.

"Then, later on, they transform into their proper unholy shapes and give the humans a really thorough supernatural shagging." Was it Crowley's imagination, or did Aziraphale's eyes dilate a little at that? He was certainly looking more relaxed than usual, leaning on the arm of the sofa instead of maintaining his normal prim-and-proper posture. "The spell is supposed to wear off only when the demon—or whatever entity—is adequately satiated. Most of the stories ended with mortals dying of exhaustion and dehydration, or else going mad."

"Well, that doesn't sounds very nice. For the mortals, anyway."

"It can end badly for the demon as well."

"How so?"

" _Welllll,_ there was one story I heard, happened in 1908 or so. A demon got summoned to a remote part of Siberia with this very same spell. But as soon as they materialized in the circle, the human was so surprised it had worked that he died of heart failure. Leaving the demon trapped inside the circle, consumed by ever-increasing frustrated lust."

"Yes, and?"

"No one is quite sure what happened, actually. There was a massive explosion. The humans put it down to a meteorite strike. The demon was never heard from again, and the rest of us wrote it off as _work-related hazards to avoid if possible."_

"Oh dear. That does sound rather nasty."

"As far as I know, there's no way to remove the spell without, ah, engaging in the required...activities. With someone."

"So. If I understand you correctly, I've possibly turned myself into some kind of...sexually-propelled time bomb, and my options are to either take myself away to Alpha Centauri where I can explode without inconveniencing anybody, or else I can stay here, with you, and. Er."

This wasn't really happening, was it? Surely this was not what was happening. Crowley's mouth was almost too dry for him to speak. "Fuck."

"You don't have to be so crude about it."

"Sorry."

"But...you're my friend, Crowley! I can't just _use_ you like that! Even if I—" he licked his lips, and swallowed uncomfortably. " _Especially_ if I think I would...enjoy it. It would be monstrously selfish."

"Limited options here, angel. I don't know if this helps, but...I've, um, kind of spent the last several thousand years trying to figure out some way of asking you to come to bed with me."

"You _what?"_

"'M not gonna have any real objections to the activity, is what I'm saying."

"You're sure you wouldn't mind? Even the...squishy bits?"

" _Especially_ the squishy bits. Just...well, this isn't at all how I maybe hoped it would happen."

"You had...hopes? Tell me. Please." Those angelic pupils were definitely dilated now, Crowley was sure of it. Aziraphale was at least fifty percent huge eyes now, even if he hadn't gotten as far as manifesting any extra ones yet. Crowley had to look away.

"They were mostly all starting from the idea that this was something you wanted. Not something you were forced into." He stared at the floor, and tried to focus on how smooth and grey and entirely uninteresting it was.

"Listen, Crowley. I still don't know for sure if I'm under the influence of any spell, or supernatural compulsion." Aziraphale fiddled with his rolled-up sleeves. "I am definitely aware of...wanting...some things." He sighed. "But they're things I often do want, when I think of you. The only difference now is that I'm less interested in politely pretending I _don't_ want you. Perhaps all it has done is lower my inhibitions a bit."

"Aziraphale..."

"Look at it like this. You're saving a friend from an unpleasant (and possibly terminal) fate he foolishly brought on himself, while sparing the lives and sanity of innocent humans. Or you can think of it as taking proper demonic advantage of your hereditary enemy, if you'd rather. Nothing to be ashamed of, either way."

"How is it," muttered Crowley irritably, "that _you_ always end up tempting _me."_

"So tell me, my dear," offered Aziraphale gently, "How would you have liked this to go?" It was the soft pleading voice that Crowley had always found hardest to resist.

Crowley squirmed a little, knowing how easily the answer came to mind. He'd thought about it a lot, over the years. It was humiliating, but also a relief, to finally admit it. "Well, I'd start by taking you out for dinner, watch you steal bites off my plate, soften you up with my brilliant conversation."

"We've certainly done that. An awful lot of times! You know how much I enjoy going to dinner with you. Consider that part entirely accounted for." The worst of it was that Aziraphale was so enthusiastic. It meant Crowley was left wondering how much Aziraphale really felt happy about Crowley's hopeless obsession with him, and how much it was only because of the influence of the summoning spell. He reminded himself that right now, it didn't matter, and continued.

"Then, instead of taking you back to the bookshop, I'd suggest you might want to come back to mine for a nightcap."

"And here we are at yours! That works out nicely." Crowley could practically _hear_ Aziraphale wriggling, even though he still couldn't bring himself to look. "I fear I may have to forego the nightcap this evening though; I'm not sure how it would interact with the other influences."

"I'd, uh...put on some music."

"Go ahead, then."

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the speakers started playing _I'll Be Your Mirror._ Aziraphale listened to the first few lines, staring dreamily into the distance.

"This is nice." He smiled. "What is it?"

"Remember when you asked me what a Velvet Underground was?"

"Did I?"

"Yeah. You were, uh, probably thinking about other things at the time. Anyway, this is a Velvet Underground."

They sat listening for a little while, and finally Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly and asked, "Would you..." he leaned forward towards Aziraphale, and reached out tentatively. "Would you dance with me?" Their eyes met at last. Aziraphale's were sparkling, but then, they always did.

Aziraphale stretched out his hand, and took Crowley's, formally, as though he might kiss it. "Yes."

They stood, separated by the distance of their outstretched arms, eyes still locked on each other. Finally, warily, they moved closer together until at last they were softly pressed against one another, arms and hands adjusting to wrap around shoulders and waist. They swayed gently to what remained of the song.

As the last notes faded away, Aziraphale sighed, and dropped his head to rest on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley sank his fingers into Aziraphale's hair. There was a muffled popping noise from just above them, and they were suddenly showered in rose petals: creamy white and deep red, bringing with them a damp and heady fragrance.

Aziraphale lifted his head to gaze wonderingly at the petals fluttering to the floor all around them, and asked "Did you do that?"

"Er. Bit of an accidental miracle."

"Crowley. You old romantic."

This last was breathed quietly into Crowley's lips, and then they were kissing. For a short while it was exactly as soft and sweet as one might expect of two beings who had just been dancing in a flurry of rose petals.

Then their mouths opened to one another, and it became something much more hungry and insistent, involving lips and tongues, fingers grasping at hair or fumbling with clothing. Crowley was winding himself around Aziraphale, trying to touch as much of him as possible, while Aziraphale seemed intent on tasting Crowley as though he were some particularly juicy and delectable fruit.

Most of Crowley's mind had more or less completely shut down now; nothing seemed real. He was increasingly convinced that he was dreaming. He could remember talking to Aziraphale on the phone, deciding to just go to sleep until the world was available to amuse him again, setting his alarm. After that, things had gotten confusing. Being summoned by a human _was_ the sort of thing that a demon might have nightmares about, and all the stuff about Aziraphale was exactly why he'd tried having dreams in the first place.

It seemed very reasonable to think that this was all a product of his frustrated imagination: a feverish, fantastic, sweaty hallucination, filling him with joy and terror more intoxicating than any earthly liquor or drug could produce. Surely that was a much more plausible explanation than the alternative. So he thanked his subconscious for providing him with such enjoyable content, and dedicated himself to enjoying it.

"Oh my," said Aziraphale, pulling away briefly for some air, "Crowley, darling, I think there may have been something to that spell after all."

"Yeah," managed Crowley, his voice ragged around the edges. "Kiss me again."

They pushed and writhed against each other, tension building in the air like an electric charge. Crowley was just beginning to be extremely resentful of the limited confines of his fashionable trousers when there was a sizzle of ethereal energy and they disappeared, along with everything else he'd been wearing. All of Aziraphale's clothes had vanished as well, Crowley noted with approval.

"Wazzat you?" Crowley inquired into Aziraphale's neck, just under the ear. "Good one."

"It's dreadfully embarrassing, losing control of one's miracles like that," said Aziraphale breathlessly, while completely undermining his point by grinding his erection against Crowley's, with apparent enjoyment.

Crowley gasped, then managed to catch his breath enough to say, "Nah, 's a bloody brilliant idea." He reached for Aziraphale's buttocks and pressed their hips even more firmly together, causing Aziraphale to gasp in turn.

They stumbled suddenly, and fell towards a floor which was unexpectedly covered with a deep red-and-black Persian carpet and a heap of fluffy white sheepskins which hadn't been there a minute ago. It gave them something soft to land on, and then to roll around over, busily exploring each other with hands and tongues.

Every window in the flat turned blue-white as an enormous flash of lightning streaked across the sky. Angel and demon froze for an instant, clutching each other tightly as the world seemed suspended in brilliant illumination.

Then there was darkness, leaving their eyes full of afterimages. Aziraphale made an indescribable sound and came, shuddering. Crowley followed an instant later. Hot slickness spurted between them, as thunder cracked and rumbled, so that as their own bodies shook with release, it seemed as though the whole universe was likewise shaking around them.

Gradually, the last echoes of thunder died away into the distance, and Aziraphale and Crowley lay on besmirched sheepskins and caught their breath a bit. It occurred to Crowley that this was the part of the dream when he'd wake up and be disappointed that Aziraphale wasn't really with him. Against all expectation, here Aziraphale still was, warm and soft and covered with rapidly cooling fluids.

"Gosh," said Crowley, and then wished he hadn't.

"That was quite something, wasn't it?" answered Aziraphale, which made Crowley feel better very briefly, and then swamped him with a rising tide of panic and dread, because what if it hadn't been a dream? What if it had all really happened? Was still happening? What on earth were they going to do now?

Outside, a lot of rain flung itself enthusiastically at the windows. It seemed very dark. In fact, the power had gone out in the whole neighborhood, though this did not affect Crowley and Aziraphale except insofar as it allowed them to cuddle together in velvety blackness and not feel quite as embarrassed as they might have done if they'd been able to see each other better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tunguska Event, Siberia 1908](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tunguska_event)


	3. a firmament in the midst of the waters

Crowley, as his combined bliss and panic began to subside, and his higher thought processes started to come back online, found himself irritatingly full of questions. Had that been enough to free Aziraphale from the effects of the summoning spell? Would it be unforgivably selfish of him to hope that it had not, and that further efforts might be required? Since it seemed to be the case that this _was_ real, he'd like to pay more attention to the details. Could they, perhaps, try a few other things that had occurred to him? Would Aziraphale still be willing to speak to him after all this was over? 

He thought there must surely be some right thing to say, some perfect remark, that would smooth over the bizarre awkwardness of experiencing an earth-shattering mutual orgasm in the company of his oldest friend, but the only thing springing to mind was "Can we maybe do that again sometime?"

Instead, he snapped his fingers to produce a warm damp flannel, and began gently cleaning Aziraphale's chest and belly.

"Mmmm, thank you, that feels lovely," Aziraphale murmured.

Having finished his ministrations, Crowley knelt apologetically next to Aziraphale, mopped himself clean-ish as well, then banished the flannel back into the void, or perhaps just to some unseen laundry hamper.

"You could take a shower, if you'd like. Get cleaned up properly."

"I suppose that would be a good idea." Aziraphale reluctantly sat up, and allowed Crowley to assist him to his feet. They made their way down the hall to the bathroom, a cavernous echoing space of dark grey marble and tile, in which the glass-walled shower alone was easily big enough to park the Bentley. The effect would have been fairly grim if there had been enough light to render the stark minimalism of it even slightly visible, but there wasn't.

Crowley paused, feeling acutely aware that Aziraphale was both extremely close to him in the darkness and also extremely naked.

"Er, light," said Crowley, pressing some switches on the wall. A collection of votive candles sprang into existence around the room, smelling of beeswax and mellowing the angles of the space with warm, flickering ambiance.

"Is that normally what your light switches do?" inquired Aziraphale, with genuine curiosity.

"No, actually. I think there's been a power cut," said Crowley sheepishly, "And I still seem to be, um, a little. Distracted."

"Well, that makes two of us," said Aziraphale.

"And, uh, you'll want towels and, and...whatnot." Crowley snapped his fingers. Quantities of fluffy towels appeared in folded stacks, and draped over heated rails freshly installed on the walls. Hooks sprouted from the wall nearest the door, with bathrobes of Egyptian cotton hanging on them: one black, one white. A plush bath mat arranged itself on the floor. The acoustics of the room were tremendously improved by these additions.

"I do hope you're planning to join me," said Aziraphale, peering at the shower controls, which were enigmatic in their sleek, nickel-plated simplicity.

"Oh!" Somehow, Crowley hadn't been expecting that. Probably it meant that the spell was still in effect. Taking a shower with Aziraphale was going to be incredibly awkward if the spell had worn off. Well, it was going to be awkward either way, just differently so. "'Course! Yeah. Would love to."

"I don't have much idea how any of this works, you'll have to help me twiddle the knobs." Aziraphale _was_ talking about the plumbing, right? Crowley wasn't sure, but thinking about it was making it impossible for him to form words in any sensible way.

Inside the formerly-bleak shower, one entire wall was now covered with shelves full of little bottles of foaming gels and shampoos and conditioners and unguents and sundry potions, hundreds of them, in every possible color, neatly arranged in rows.

Crowley turned on the water, and they were enveloped in a warm, soothing spray. Aziraphale was investigating the bottles, opening the tops and sniffing curiously at them. He put them down again, and turned to Crowley.

"I just want to say, it's awfully decent of you to be so accommodating."

"N-not a problem. I'm, well, I'm, you know, always happy to lend...a...hand..." Crowley was doomed, trapped in his own shower with a naked angel, drowning in fathomless darkened eyes and pleasantly trickling water, entirely helpless to say anything that wasn't completely idiotic. And with his cock starting to twitch again. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Hmm," said Aziraphale, looking him up and down, and clearly noticing that his unhelpful Effort was helpfully making an effort. Knowing that Aziraphale was looking at him caused another little surge of interest, which in turn caused his face to burn a dull red.

"You were so kind about cleaning me up, earlier. If you'll tell me which of these you like," said Aziraphale, turning back to the bottles, "I could return the favor."

Crowley picked an amber-colored bottle, more or less at random. Aziraphale poured some of the liquid into his hands, and began to spread it over Crowley's skin, starting with the shoulders and working his way down Crowley's chest, massaging gently.

Now covered in perfumed lather applied by relentlessly gentle hands, Crowley made a positively superhuman effort to be relaxed and casual. "Still under the influence, are you?"

"It would seem so, yes." And apparently unfazed by it, if his matter-of-fact tone of voice was anything to go by. It was becoming apparent, however, that Crowley's corporation wasn't the only one renewing its enthusiasm.

"Aziraphale..." Some obnoxious and possibly self-sabotaging part of him still wanted to get a word in. "Is this going to be something we never mention again, after it's all over?"

"Are you wondering if I'll still respect you in the morning?" said Aziraphale archly, as he continued to glide his fingers over Crowley's surfaces, making sure not to miss any areas. It was the most careful and exquisite torture Crowley could ever remember experiencing. Hell had _nothing_ on an angel full of dedicated lust.

"No no no, you know I don't mean it like that! It's just, we've been friends for so long, and I've, um, thought about it kind of a lot, only I felt guilty, y'know, because I didn't think you'd ever want to...well, I mean, I didn't even know if angels even _do_ this kind of thing."

"This one does." Aziraphale's hands were still mapping every one of Crowley's nerve endings individually, lighting them up with sizzling trails of sparks.

"Right, right, but only because you have to. Because of some stupid magical compulsion."

"Now that you mention it, I suppose I could have tried other solutions." Aziraphale began to methodically rinse the bath gel off, rubbing smoothly over Crowley's skin with deft motions. "Perhaps I could have come up with some way of counteracting the spell, the way I did when I sent you away from that idiotic human. It would be trickier in the absence of the original summoning circle, but I could probably work something out."

"Wait, that's right," realized Crowley. "You reversed the effects on me, before you jumped into the circle yourself. Why _didn't_ you try that?"

"Honestly, it didn't occur to me at the time. I was too busy panicking." There was a brief pause, and then Aziraphale finished his rinsing and took his hands entirely away from Crowley, who hissed involuntarily at the sudden absence of contact. "I still could, if you'd rather. Find some way of undoing the spell."

"You really are a _bastard,_ you know that?" said Crowley admiringly. "Nnngggh! You've got me all worked up again, and now you're threatening to just..."

"Or, if you like, we can...continue. And hope that things don't get too, er, extreme." Aziraphale was flushed all over, very obviously aroused, tense as an over-tightened harp string, and it seemed like putting distance between himself and Crowley was causing him considerable strain.

Crowley wondered whether he was really overheated enough that steam was boiling off him, or if it was just the spray of the shower. "Yes, let's do that," he managed to say. "Continue. As we were. Can we?" He could tell he sounded utterly desperate.

"Oh, I was _hoping_ you'd say that," breathed Aziraphale, in a voice that shook Crowley to his very foundations.

Crowley couldn't remember Aziraphale _ever_ sounding quite like that. For as long as he'd been watching and listening to the angel enjoy books and theater and food and music and wine and all the sensual delights the Earth had to offer, he couldn't remember anything that had made him seem so undone. Aziraphale sounded like he was at the very outermost edge of self-control. The idea of it pushed Crowley close to some edge, himself. Abandoning all hesitation, he kissed Aziraphale for all he was worth, starting at the top and working his way downwards.

"I have been wanting—" he mumbled into Aziraphale's neck,  
"to do this—" gnawing lightly on collarbones,  
"at _least—_ " circling his tongue around one nipple,  
"since the invention of showers—" nibbling at the other,  
"or possibly—" pressing gratefully against the softness surrounding Aziraphale's navel,  
"since the invention of rain," ending up finally in close proximity to Aziraphale's cock, which by now was probably the least-soft part of him.

Crowley paused, wanting to be sure. He looked up at Aziraphale, watching water stream down over that soft lovely skin, winding its way through fine hair and dimples and tracing rivulets along the lines of stretch marks.

"Aziraphale...can I?" The movement of breath over the angel's sensitive cock made it jump, pushing even closer to Crowley's mouth. He couldn't remember ever wanting anything so much. "Is it okay?"

Aziraphale's head was thrown back against the wall of the shower*, his eyes half-closed. "Yes," he breathed. " _Yes._ "

Crowley ran his hand along the hot heavy length once, making Aziraphale shudder, and then wrapped his forked tongue around teasingly, before finally closing his mouth around velvety skin. The world narrowed to an intensely focused point: one where nothing mattered but the slippery exploration of texture, the mapping of which actions produced an indrawn breath, a twitch, a throb, a half-stifled cry. The careful awareness of how sharp his teeth were, and the importance of remembering to be gentle.

And ohhhh, _this_ was why he'd been made in the shape of a serpent, _this_ was why he had such a sensitive and flexible tongue, _this_ was why his jaw unhinged. It was so he'd be able to inspire Aziraphale to make those amazing, perfect noises of happiness and pleasure. The reason his knees were so useless for normal walking was because they were made for kneeling. His throat was flawlessly constructed for swallowing Aziraphale as deep as he could possibly go. It all made so much sense now.

His angel was gasping now, trying (very politely) not to thrust too hard and only partially succeeding, holding on to Crowley's wet hair and arching his back and saying "Oh! Oh, Crowley, I'm—" and the back of Crowley's mouth was suddenly full of hot salt.

Dizzy with the wonder of it, Crowley came, untouched, with Aziraphale's cock still pulsing in his mouth.

* * *

* He had managed to lean against a wall that wasn't the one covered in shelves full of tiny bottles, which was probably for the best.


	4. grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit

Crowley rested his head against Aziraphale's strong thigh, and just breathed for a little while, as the warm water continued to run over them. A series of aftershocks shuddered through him, and he could hear Aziraphale's breathing slowly returning to normal.

"Y'know, for all the time I've spent imagining that, the real thing was still way more amazing than I was prepared for." Crowley scrambled to his feet, too wobbly to be graceful, and embraced Aziraphale a little shakily. They held each other, gathering their strength.

"I quite agree," said Aziraphale, "That was far beyond all expectations."

They exchanged a look of mingled joy and disbelief, a kind of giddy glee at the wrongness and rightness of it all, and then it was impossible not to start kissing again. They took some time with it, gently exploring, learning each other's mouths and tongues, trying to say some kind of _thank you_ and _you're welcome_ and reassuring one another that this situation, disconcerting though it may have been, was nevertheless proving to be enjoyable.

Eventually, Crowley shut off the water, and they took turns drying each other off, and that was lovely, a little bit tender and a little bit teasing and a little bit ticklish. Wrapped in the matched set of black and white bathrobes, they wandered into the room all full of plants.

"It reminds me of when we first met," said Aziraphale. "We just need a wall to stand on." He beamed happily at Crowley. "Who would have guessed that we would end up here?"

"Not me, that's for sure. I was mostly expecting you to smite me straight back to Hell."

"You weren't what I expected either. I'd been told that all of the Fallen were treacherous and spiteful. No one warned me you'd be so curious about Earth, or so kind."

"I wasn't kind! I was merely trying to avoid an outburst of celestial wrath, if I said the wrong thing."

Aziraphale cupped Crowley's cheek in his hands, and gazed into his eyes, shining there in the dark. "Nobody told me demons could be beautiful, either."

"We're not!"

"You _are!_ You were then, too. All gleaming scales and eyes like jewels, so sleek..." Aziraphale was getting a bit carried away with the nostalgia, Crowley thought. It was embarrassing, really. Besides, he could feel another unintentional miracle building up.

"...and then your hair, oh it was lovely when it was long, it always looked so..." Aziraphale made some kind of swoopy, fluttering gestures that were probably not meant to be so evocative of a shampoo commercial. "...dramatic. Although I like it this way, too." Those sturdy fingers were running through Crowley's hair, smoothing away the last traces of water from the shower, tugging just a little. Crowley made a sound halfway between a hiss and a gasp, and the hair in Aziraphale's hands obligingly unfurled into long ringlets.

At the same time, the floor heaped itself with rich black topsoil, then rapidly sprouted a dense covering of plants. Some were grasses, some were low creeping groundcovers, some were herbs that smelled wonderful when they were crushed underfoot.

Aziraphale laughed delightedly. " _Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green._ "

It gave them a strange and almost homesick feeling, sitting in a fragrant meadow in the dark, under the leaves of Crowley's larger plants. They wrapped arms around one another's waists, and leaned on each other in a companionable way.

"Earlier, when you said, um, 'since the invention of rain'..." Aziraphale hesitated, unsure of what exactly he wanted to ask. "Have you really wanted... _this,_ all that time?"

Crowley snuggled against Aziraphale, basking in the feeling that the contact was not only permitted but welcome. "Nothing so specific, really. Just knew I wanted to be close to you. You were so bright, all glowy and warm, like the sun, but, y'know, better for talking to."

"You talked to the sun?"

"I talked to everything!" said Crowley exuberantly. "Most of it didn't answer, of course. But you never know."

It was easy for Aziraphale to imagine. Crowley _still_ talked to everything, more or less constantly: people, of course, but also plants, ducks, the night sky, and his car. In fact, he seemed to still be talking.

"The whole business of having a body was new enough that I hadn't had a chance to think about what I might do with it. I mean, I was still a snake half the time!"

"And a very handsome one, as I said."

"Pah!"

"I admit my opinions may be somewhat biased."

"What about you? Have I really been tempting you to contemplate the pleasures of the flesh all these years without even knowing it?" Crowley stroked his hands idly up and down Aziraphale's back, feeling lovely and relaxed, and maybe a little mischievous. In all the time they'd known each other, he'd never had much chance to see the angel being either sleepy or lustful, and he was curious to find out whether an angel could be persuaded to go further in either of those directions.

"No, I didn't think about...making an effort, as it were...until much later. I was...curious about you, and, well, confused." Aziraphale leaned into Crowley's touch, and continued to play with his newly-lengthened hair. There was a hint of brightness around the angel's head: his halo was starting to manifest. Around them, the roomful of meadow was growing flower stalks, unnoticed in the dark.

"Confused? About what?"

"I'd been created to love, you know. To love, and to protect the things I loved. And oh! I loved everything in the Garden. The plants and the animals, the people, the stones and the water and the earth, the way the light shone through green leaves, and the way the air blew past my face. It seemed perfectly natural that I should love the serpent who came to talk to me, when I was worried." He paused to kiss the demon, carefully and thoroughly. The halo grew slowly brighter. Above their heads, Crowley's houseplants covered themselved with buds, swelling and opening into bloom. "I didn't think until later, oh, that's a demon, maybe I'm not supposed to feel that way about it." Aziraphale shook his head, and held Crowley closely. "But you weren't an _it,_ you were _you._ And then I didn't know what to think. I wanted to be able to keep talking to you, too."

"We have managed to keep up a pretty decent conversation, over the years." Crowley's hands continued their explorations, wandering along Aziraphale's ankles and calves and thighs. The grass was buried now in violets and buttercups, bright spots of color showing in the light around Aziraphale.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, and Crowley realized that the angel was beginning to quiver slightly under his touch. His experiments were paying off nicely. "I'm beginning to worry I may not be able to keep up much conversation, at this rate."

"Whatever could you possibly mean by that, angel?" said Crowley, with an air of suspicious innocence.

"Well, I would have expected things to be...calming down a bit by now. Humans usually get sleepy, I believe." Crowley nodded in agreement, and made a sort of humming noise. "But I seem to be, um, still...fairly excitable."

"Nice to know the locker room gossip checks out."

"I hate to inconvenience you." Aziraphale pulled Crowley close, and kissed him hungrily. "I fear I'm being—quite—a—persistent—nuisance." He punctuated these words with a series of kisses that felt as though he wanted to devour Crowley bite by bite.

"Do. Please. Inconvenience me," said Crowley, kissing back with equal enthusiasm. "Did you have any particular inconveniences in mind?"

"Ahhh! I would like—if you don't mind too awfully much—could you—that is—"

"Could you stop being so bloody polite?"

Aziraphale pulled Crowley into another kiss, strong and insistent. Bathrobes were shoved hastily aside, and Crowley found himself being rather assertively rearranged on the soft carpet of vegetation. The angel's halo was very bright now. A glowing nimbus surrounded his head, and shed enough light to illuminate a wall all covered with jasmine, and an impressive variety of orchids that Crowley was pretty sure he hadn't put there.

There was a sudden surge of energy that Crowley realized was _heavenly._ The kind that powered flaming swords. Besides the visible light of Aziraphale's halo, he was radiating a divine force that sent a small prickly chill up Crowley's spine. Demons have nothing to fear from earthly flames or hellfire, but the burning light of divinity has the potential to reduce them to little heaps of superheated dust, if they're not careful.

Aziraphale's hands, where they made contact with Crowley's skin, were humming with that celestial energy. Still tightly controlled, but seething and boiling just under the surface. "Want you—inside me. Please."

Well, that was—direct. The naked _wanting_ in Aziraphale's voice instantly vaporized all thoughts of being careful. Crowley's body (which had been half considering the merits of _sleepy,_ until just a few minutes ago) abruptly decided that the prospect definitely counted as _thrilling_ rather than _terrifying,_ and that if the laws of physics didn't apply to him, there was no reason any of the usual human biological limitations needed to, either. A significant amount of blood shifted to locations where it could feel useful and wanted. Very little was left to keep his brain going, which was probably fine, since clearly his mind wasn't being asked for its opinion on the matter. He went all light-headed for a minute.

Then his hands remembered what they'd been doing earlier, and did it some more. He slid his fingers teasingly along the enticing lines where legs joined hips, then further to where the very most sensitive places awaited his touch. Miraculous slickness appeared then, to ease the way. (And whose miracle had that been?) He slid an exploratory finger inside, and Aziraphale made such noises of satisfaction and anticipation that Crowley allowed himself to feel a bit flattered.

Crowley had only the vaguest idea of what to do, in this particular situation, so it was possibly due to the effects of the spell that it seemed to take very little effort to persuade Aziraphale's body to accept him. It would be temptingly poetic to say that the angel opened like a flower, to introduce comparisons of beauty, or point out certain parallels of intended function, but the fact is that flowers are useless at telling you how they like it. Whereas Aziraphale, in response to Crowley's hands, was panting, gasping, breathing heavily, and shouting encouragements that were heartfelt if lacking in coherence. Crowley was glad of the advice, and did his best to keep up with such requests as he could make sense of.

A short while later, Aziraphale took charge again, indicating that Crowley should lie back on a piece of ground thoughtfully cushioned with the discarded bathrobes. He took Crowley's cock in hand, rubbed it pensively as though testing for effects of surface friction, then leaned over and wet it very thoroughly with his mouth. Crowley yelped with the suddenness of it. He only had a minute to get used to the sensation before Aziraphale moved again, lined himself up, and lowered himself onto Crowley with a slow, inexorable force like continents colliding.

Crowley pushed fully into Aziraphale, and thought about that first time he'd slithered bodily through the earth, pressing upward to finally break through the surface into a brilliant world filled with unknown things. _Get up there and make some trouble,_ they'd told him, and he had certainly done that. Now, with his hips rocking against his angel, enveloped in warmth and bathed in halo-light, he supposed that he was still making trouble, of a sort. Making something, anyway. The heat and closeness of it was unbearably sweet, and he almost allowed the thought to form: _we're making..._

No. As much as he wanted it to be true, that kind of thinking was going to have to wait until they were both in their right minds, and not under any magical compulsions. What he was making right now was _the most of the situation,_ and _up for lost time,_ and, possibly _mistakes._ And if he was also making it up as he went along, well, that had always worked out pretty well for him in the past. More or less.

Aziraphale, for his part, was making noise, and making the air around them thrum with power. His halo brightened and dimmed with their movements, shining pulses that matched the rhythm of Crowley's thrusts. If the sounds were anything to go by, a particularly bright flash of light meant that something felt especially good. It was fascinating. Crowley stroked his hands up Aziraphale's spine and back down again, and ripples of light followed. He wrapped his legs around Aziraphale's hips, squeezing, and watched the farther corners of the room become more visible, as the glow increased.

It was getting _very_ bright, he realized. He had a sudden, fleeting wish for his sunglasses. Then the air shook and all the leaves of the plants rattled in a sudden gust of wind, as Aziraphale's wings materialized. They were huge and powerful and perfect, shimmering with pearly light of their own, and the angel used their force to push himself impossibly closer to Crowley, until the two of them were so deeply joined that they could hardly tell where one ended and the other began.

The plants seemed to be enjoying the angelic energy. If Crowley had bothered to look, it would have reminded him of watching the kind of time-lapse that shows up in nature documentaries, where a rainforest's worth of leaves unfurl in rapid succession, petals arrange themselves according to their own proper geometries, then fall away to be replaced by expanding fruit. Over them and around them a fig tree was putting forth green figs, and a vine covered itself with tender grapes, giving a good smell. Pomegranates swelled and ripened. But Crowley had other things on his mind.

And then Aziraphale was shouting, and the light was bright, brighter, _brighter,_ too bright to look at, burning through closed eyelids, washing over Crowley with blinding scorching heat, and Crowley was shouting also, whether with pleasure or pain he would not have been able to say. Still the heavenly radiance increased, overpowering all other sensory input, until everything went white.

And then it faded, and everything went black.

* * *

The room was very still. At length, there was a faint and tentative rustling of feathers.

"I say, are you all right? Crowley? _Crowley!_ ...Oh good lord, what have I done?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the Song of Songs for a couple of lines which I stole and mangled.


	5. and the lesser light to rule the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets a bit more demonic in this one. Hope you like scales.

Though he had no practical first-hand knowledge of it, Aziraphale was acquainted with the notion of smoking after sex. He'd always assumed it involved a cigarette. He was pretty sure it wasn't usually a full-body experience. Also, he was _certain_ the body in question was supposed to be conscious. He leaned anxiously over Crowley, waving his wings in an attempt to dissipate the smell of burnt hair. The demon did at least appear to still be breathing, which seemed like a good sign.

Happily, it did not take Crowley very long to revive. Aziraphale released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding*, whooshing out an enormous sigh of relief to see his lightly-toasted friend stir slightly, blink, and start to lift up his head.

"Wheeeee-ooooo," said Crowley. "Holy _fuck._ " He put his head back down again.

"I suppose that's one way of describing it. I'm afraid I've damaged you."

"No, I'm...okay. Kind of a buzz, actually. Y'know, tingly. Like sticking my finger in an electrical socket. Only, uh, not my finger."

Crowley propped himself on one elbow amongst the flattened flowers as Aziraphale stopped leaning over him and began pacing restlessly. The angel's halo had dimmed, but was already starting to show again. Energy crackled from him in almost visible bursts, like solar flares. His eyes were huge, wild, searching the jungly space around him as though seeking some escape route. The air in his vicinity tasted like the pops and crackles of a scratched, dusty gramophone record playing a particularly bombastic symphony.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale miserably.

"Mmm?"

"I want more," he said. "I _need_ more."

"Sure thing, angel," he said. "Just, maybe, give me a couple of minutes." It seemed a reasonable request, seeing as how he'd only just managed to sit up.

"I'm afraid of hurting you!"

"I'm all right, really. It was just a little...surprising, is all. See? Not even any scorch marks." The dark patches here and there, that Aziraphale had initially taken for burnt skin or bruises, turned out to be merely scales. Close exposure to angelic light seemed to have brought out some of Crowley's more demonic characteristics. It had also frizzled all the body hair away from the now-scaly places, which at least explained the smoke.

"The energy is still increasing, though. I can feel it," said Aziraphale unreassuringly. "What if next time is worse?"

"Ehh. I'm sure I can manage." Crowley was feeling surprisingly relaxed about it all. No doubt this was the result of having several spine-shuddering orgasms in rapid succession, the most recent of which had half-discorporated him. On top of being very tired, his system was absolutely sloshing with euphoric chemicals. He was floating along in a kind of weightless, boneless, punch-drunk haze, incapable of imagining that anything really bad could ever happen to him. For once, he was as laid-back as he'd always dreamed of being.

It was bothering him a little, though, that Aziraphale was so agitated. Crowley was used to being the one circling and fretting and buzzing with nerves. It was all wrong for him to be sitting still while the angel did laps around the room. He got up and tried to intercept him on the next pass, with a friendly pat on one shoulder. Aziraphale responded by grabbing him with unexpected strength, pulling him into a firm embrace, and plastering the entire length of his body against Crowley's. It was a little like getting hugged by an avalanche of large, densely-upholstered boulders. Crowley always forgot how _strong_ Aziraphale was, since they didn't usually bother using physical force against one another in their respective thwartings and wilings. Had carefully avoided it, in fact, for the past few thousand years.**

Much as he enjoyed the assertive affection, Crowley had to admit that if it came right down to it, Aziraphale could snap him in half like a twig. What with that and the burning ethereal energy, he might do well to worry about what could happen if the angel really did get carried away in the heat of the moment and forgot himself. It seemed like getting carried away was very much on the agenda, as Aziraphale pressed a line of scorching kisses down Crowley's neck, leaving little singed patches of scales with each one.

It was a little uncomfortable, Crowley supposed. Like the kind of small electric shocks you got when you shuffled across a wool carpet on a dry winter day, and then touched a metal doorknob. He was kind of getting into it, maybe. Then Aziraphale happened to swipe his tongue across a place with scales instead of skin, and an entirely other kind of jolt shot through Crowley.

_Ohhhhhh._

_This_ he could work with. It seemed that when his flesh wasn't constrained by trying to look human, he was capable of absorbing Aziraphale's radiating energy, and transmuting it into something that flickered through his veins like hellfire, warming him and recharging his own waning reserves.

Still nibbling at neck and collarbones, Aziraphale reached his hand around Crowley's hip and squeezed, leaving a dark scaly handprint on Crowley's arse, the thumb neatly fitted into one of the dimples on his lower back. A wisp of burnt-hair-scented smoke curled away, just as Aziraphale's other hand brushed over some more of the scales on Crowley's neck. It was like a circuit had been completed. Crowley stiffened with a sudden gasp, more awake than he'd been in hours.

"Oh, my dear! I _am_ hurting you."

"No! Well, a bit. But—" Crowley didn't get a chance to try and explain his revelation about the energy thing. Aziraphale was retreating, wringing his hands together and trying to apologize. He oscillated back and forth, approaching Crowley as though to soothe him, then wrenching himself away again.

"This will never do...there must be some..." Aziraphale was barely coherent. "Maybe it would help if I got some air."

"Sure," said Crowley, opening the door to his balcony. "The rain has stopped. I think it's starting to clear up, out there."

They went out onto the balcony, and looked out over the darkened city. Directly overhead, where the storm had moved on, the stars were more visible than they normally would have been in the middle of Mayfair. A lopsided gibbous moon peeked out from behind some remaining bits of cloud.

Aziraphale took several deep breaths, hoping they might calm him enough to maintain at least a little bit of control. Or at least delay the next crisis, and allow Crowley some recovery time. It seemed to do him some good; the staticky buzz receded in the cool rain-damp air.

"Ohhh, doesn't it feel good?" Aziraphale wriggled and fluttered his wings, delighting in the breeze flowing over his naked skin.

Crowley had to agree. The rain had left the city looking clean and fresh, and everything seemed to sparkle faintly in the moonlight.

Aziraphale tilted his head back, stretched his arms over his head, and unfolded his wings entirely. They fanned up and over him, silvery-white and gleaming. He shook them out, rustling the feathers, and then pulled them back down into their resting position.

Crowley was twisting himself around to see the handprint on his rear end. The thought that he was marked so clearly with evidence of Aziraphale's touch was affecting him in ways he wasn't quite prepared to examine. So he examined himself instead, running his finger along the hand-shaped patch of scales, and became aware that Aziraphale was staring at him with a perfectly balanced mix of horror and desire.

"Aziraphale," he said, keeping his eyes unblinkingly fixed on the angel's, "Will you touch me again?"

"No," said Aziraphale, backing away.

"But you want to." Crowley was sure of it. "And I want you to."

"Yes, I want to," answered the angel, and his voice shook. "But if I do, I won't be able to stop."

Crowley took a step towards him. "What if—"

"No! I won't risk hurting you!" There was a sudden flurry of wingbeats as Aziraphale launched himself desperately into the air. "Don't—want us— _both_ —exploding!" He was flying vigorously, already high and far enough away that his voice was fading quickly into the windy distance. Crowley stared upward in bemusement, opened his mouth to shout some protest, then stopped, and let him go.

He wasn't worried about being able to catch up to Aziraphale when it became necessary: he'd always been better at speed, and the angel was glowing so brightly he would surely be easy to spot in the dark sky. For now, Crowley was glad of the chance to focus without distraction. He had some important miracles to do, a few adjustments to make, and he _really_ didn't want them to get out of hand like all his previous ones that night. He concentrated carefully, bending reality to suit his current ideas.

There. That ought to do it. He paused for a quick inventory of his newly-modified corporation. Still more or less human-shaped, now almost entirely covered in a dark layer of tough, shining scales. He had allowed his feet to grow sharp black claws, although he had kept his hands as soft and smooth as possible. (He had _plans_ for those.) His hair, while still long, looked more like twisted ropes than ringlets. His spine seemed to contain a greater number of vertebrae than usual; honestly he could never be bothered to keep track of how many of the fiddly little things he was supposed to have in the first place. His yellow eyes and sharp white teeth were the only remaining bright things about him, and they gleamed wickedly in the shadows. He was a monstrous nightmarish horror, spawned from the deepest pits, which was to say: he looked good, and he knew it.

As for the rest...yes. Just the way he wanted it. And now to find his angel.

Crowley grinned, flicked his own wings into existence, and gave them an experimental wave. He gathered himself, and leapt upwards, the eddies of air from his flight pushing droplets of water off the edge of the balcony to fall away. Feeling wonderfully demonic, an ominous streak of deeper blackness in the already dark night, Crowley gained altitude rapidly, leaving London far below.

Once he was high enough to be above the cloud layer, it was easy to locate Aziraphale, glimmering uneasily in the distance. More than that, Crowley could _feel_ him, a turbulent jangle of angelic energy. Crowley wondered if he had become more sensitive to Aziraphale since they had borrowed one another's bodies, or if he was only imagining it. 

Instead of letting himself think about that, he looked around, admiring the earth below and the sky above. It was a beautiful night. The receding bank of storm clouds was still piled up dramatically on one side, and now that Crowley was out of the smog and glare closer to the city, the stars really came into their own. It occurred to him that it might be fun to sneak up on Aziraphale, to swoop up unexpectedly behind him and say "Boo!" He spent a little time weighing the relative merits (frightening an angel: very demonic, also hilarious) and drawbacks (unkind, potentially dangerous), before realizing that it wouldn't be possible anyway. The resonance that allowed him to sense Aziraphale's energy also meant the angel could sense _him._ So he took advantage of his visibility, and indulged in some acrobatics, instead.

He put a little real power into his wings, looped and spiraled, dove off in the direction of the clouds and slid down them, soared up again and finally traced a decreasing curve around Aziraphale, ending up just a few feet in front of him in a sort of hopeful hover, suddenly not sure of what to say.

"Show-off," said Aziraphale, failing to hide an appreciative smirk. Then his face fell. "Oh, you shouldn't be here at all!" His mouth did that slightly sour disapproving thing. "Or have you just dropped by to see if I like your new look?"

"Listen, I have some ideas," said Crowley. "You've been cranking up the old celestial glory, right? And it seems like too much holiness is bad for me if I'm close to being human. But if I go a bit more evil and corrupt, it might balance. Light radiates, darkness absorbs."

"Hm, I think I understand what you mean," said Aziraphale. "You could be onto something." He moved, fluttering his wings to close the distance between them, then with a great effort of will, stopped before they could quite touch. "Are you sure it will be all right?"

"No." Crowley shook his head, and tried not to let the rest of him shake too visibly. He hoped Aziraphale didn't notice how much he was trembling. "But do you really think I'd want to stick around, if you annihilated yourself? I'd have to find some way to—" his voice cracked, and dropped to a hoarse whisper, "—follow you, and I'd much rather go together."

They both reached out then. Crowley took Aziraphale's face in his hands, while Aziraphale gently stroked his fingers over Crowley's shoulders and down his back. Crowley felt the touch as an infusion of fiery warmth, and the frantic crackling energy pouring off the angel seemed to abate just a little.

"Ohhhhhhh," said Aziraphale.

"Yesssssss," said Crowley.

They crushed themselves together, using hands and arms and wings, and kissed as though the fate of the world depended on it.

"Hey," said Crowley in giddy relief, "Is that a flaming sword, or are you just happy to see me?"

"You," Aziraphale informed him, "are utterly loathsome," a kiss, "wretched," another kiss, "and vile."

"I am," agreed Crowley. "And _you_ are a shining paragon of virtue. But I think, in spite of that, we can make it work."

Tangled together, they drifted off into the clouds.

* * *

* Partly out of worry, partly because of the aforementioned atmosphere of burnt hair.

** Aziraphale disliked violence on principle: he insisted that pacifism showed respect towards all created things and was therefore virtuous. Crowley's reasons were mostly due to Sloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sort of picturing Crowley's appearance at the end as partway through the snake-to-human transformation in Episode 1 of the show. Also, I think he would fit in nicely with the crew in that one engraving of the [Temptation of Saint Anthony](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Temptation_of_St_Anthony_\(Schongauer\)) (no relation to our own Anthony J).


	6. that may fly above the earth in the open firmament

Black wings and white wings beat in rhythm, carrying a pair of entities higher and higher into the air. 

"Seems all right so far. How about if I do this?" Shining energy met Crowley's skin, was absorbed, and radiated through him as tingling heat.

"Ohhhhh, yeah, that feels amazing. Do it again."

"With pleasure. Or this?"

"Do you know you're starting to get all glowy again?"

"So I am. Oh dear, what if all gets too much?"

"Y'know, I can always run awa— I can retreat. Strategically."

Aziraphale bit his lip. "I'm more concerned about what might happen if I won't let you go."

"You couldn't keep me here if I didn't want to be. I'll have you know I'm wily, and cunning, and...and...very good at slithering out of things." As he said this, he twisted out of Aziraphale's arms and flew a quick, triumphant circle around him. Aziraphale promptly lunged for him again, only to have Crowley slide neatly out of his grasp, do a loop-the-loop with a bit of a shimmy in the middle, and grab Aziraphale instead.

Soon they were engaged in something like a wrestling match crossed with a game of tag, mixing in an occasional hint of hide-and seek as one or another of them darted behind a concealing cloud. Crowley was naturally excellent at hiding, while Aziraphale had the advantage of myriad eyes, capable of seeing in wide ranges of spectra. Aziraphale was remarkably good at holding on, at least until Crowley slipped through his fingers. Crowley was so fast he seemed to be in many places at once; Aziraphale was only ever in one place, but somehow it was always exactly the right one. Their (game?) (fight?) (dance?) was as much mental as it was physical: it was a test of how well they knew each other's strengths and weaknesses, how much they could predict and how much they could still manage to surprise one another.

As they grappled, Crowley became aware that it was a very good thing they had never, historically, engaged in serious combat. Each new stratagem tested his reflexes, pushed his limits, forced him to think more quickly and flexibly. Their approaches were very different, but so evenly balanced that neither could get the upper hand. It was utterly exhilarating. If they'd spent any time doing this, they'd never have gotten anything else done at all.

It was of course made more complicated because the question of winning or losing was somewhat ambiguous. Was the end goal to hold, or be held? What did it mean to achieve freedom, when all you wanted to do with it was to return to the enemy you'd escaped? Their cycle of action and reaction, perpetually equal and opposite, could only end in a glad shout of simultaneous victory and defeat, as they both finally stopped pretending they had any interest in getting away from each other. They flew in a rising double helix that narrowed as it climbed, until their wings wrapped around each other, and the rest of their limbs as well.

"Diabolical fiend! I have you now!"

"'Course you do," said the fiend. "You always have."

They kissed, joyfully, holding each other as closely as they possibly could.

Their flight had by now brought them to an altitude where the air became so tenuous it barely even counted anymore. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale could remember if crystalline spheres were still part of the official cosmology, but they were so far up, they might be in some danger of bumping into one.

Aziraphale's hands roamed over the scaled firmness of Crowley, gently exploring his torso as though counting the delicate, too-numerous ribs, observing that the sleek aerodynamic curves remained unbroken by either nipples or navel. Instead, there were subtle shadings of color and texture, and places where the demon was notably sensitive to touch.

"It would seem you've made some other changes as well." Aziraphale's downward progress had continued, until he found himself approaching a region becoming distinctly concave. He paused just at the tantalizing brink, which promised to be a very slippery slope of temptation indeed.

"Yeah, I figured maybe I had a better chance of keeping up with you this way," said Crowley. "And I thought it would be fun. Bit selfish of me, really. I can change back, if you'd like."

"No, no, this is perfectly delightful! May I explore?"

"Oh fuck yes."

Aziraphale's fingers dipped in, and Crowley cried out as angelic light turned his insides to liquid fire.

"Still all right?" inquired Aziraphale, concerned.

"Yeah," panted Crowley, "Yeah, that's...oh _fuck_ —"

He should, he supposed, have anticipated that Aziraphale wasn't going to stop at fingers. That was his _tongue,_ trained to impeccable dexterity after centuries of oysters and other fine dining, setting off all sorts of fireworks in Crowley's insides.

" _Hhhnnnnnnngggggh,_ " observed Crowley. He flailed and writhed on thin air, spinning them chaotically, reaching out for something solid, to steady himself. It was hard to say which of them was more startled when the something he encountered was Aziraphale's cock. Which was inarguably solid, at any rate. And, by this stage of the proceedings, astonishingly sensitive.

" _Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh,_ " remarked Aziraphale, who was approximately as coherent as Crowley.

"I think now would be a really good time for you to fuck me senseless, angel!"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Quite right!"

They rearranged themselves with a minimum of grace and a maximum of efficiency.

" _Ooooohhhhhhhhhh,_ " sighed Aziraphale, sinking into warm welcoming depths that felt as though they'd been designed for him specifically.*

Now Crowley could really put his hips to good use. He concentrated on that, while also burying his hands in Aziraphale's hair and pulling him close, so he could kiss him deeply. Their wings fluttered and furled, another layer of caresses.

Around the angel, the light grew brighter and more focused, intensifying until it was almost tangible, hard and sharp as diamond. It was more than any earthly or heavenly form could contain, and when the inevitable release of it swept through him, Aziraphale shattered into brilliant glittering sparks.

He climaxed higher and higher, endlessly, every particle accelerating until it seemed he would fly apart. "Crowley!" he wailed, in helpless ecstasy and despair.

Crowley was already wrapped around him as much as it was possible to be, in this form. He would have to do better. He shifted and changed, stretching and elongating into his fullest serpentine length, circling and twining around Aziraphale in epicyclical loops in an attempt to hold him together. He was the safe perimeter, keeping everything important protected and contained. He was the ouroboros biting his own tail so there would be no gaps, no weak spots, making sure the knot would hold. He was dark matter, slowing the expansion of the universe. He was the bitter chocolate shell around the sweet center.

And still the light streamed out and out, radiating away, seeking motion and escape. It needed something that could stabilize it, some gravity that could draw it back in, something to pull all that frantic energy into a steady orbit.

Crowley, still maintaining his encircling field around the fragmenting angel, reached deep inside his own being, searching through a part of his demonic essence normally kept so well-concealed that he could almost deny it existed at all. He located the dense black hole that was his heart, which he had always thought of as an irredeemably shriveled, collapsed remnant, the dead cinder of a failed star, the permanent evidence of his Fall. A thing of limitless want and need, that had never learned to let go.

Examining it, feeling the way its concentrated mass distorted the shape of the universe, he was illuminated with a sense of _oh, so that's what this is good for._ It was deeply uncool, and he knew he was going to cringe with the raw humiliation of it later, but it felt so good to succumb to the craving of feeling valuable and necessary. In the certain knowledge that _this is going to hurt in the morning,_ he pulled out his heart and handed it to Aziraphale. Who oriented himself around that point.

All the shining exploding brilliance responded to the gravitational well of it, settling into patterns like iron filings around a magnet, like atoms crystallizing in perfect geometry, slowly swirling, forming a luminous rippling spiral array like a galaxy in miniature.

As the particles of Aziraphale relaxed into new configurations, the particles of Crowley were able to loosen their tight hold and flow in new directions also. Dark and light flickered around one another in an endless dance, laughing in cosmic delight as they explored all the possible permutations of amongst and betwixt. They reflected and refracted one another into a fractal kaleidoscope of colors and shapes and images, such as might be described by a treeful of typewriting monkeys on high-grade hallucinogens.

It was a blueshifted blue movie in a redshifted red-light district, coming together in the purplest possible passionate prose. It was the collision of the immovable force and the irresistible object.

If any human had happened to look up at the right moment, they might have thought it was some unusual form of lightning, high in the clouds. Or maybe it would have seemed more like a shimmer of aurora borealis showing itself in a rare latitude.

If this hypothetical human had seen it at closer range, they would probably not have survived the experience, and at best they would have been blinded for life, or driven to madness, so it's just as well they weren't there.

However, if some other appropriately perceptive observer had been in exactly the right place to catch a glimpse, it would have reminded them of an infinite number of exquisitely-jeweled glockenspiels cascading endlessly upwards in a moebius loop of water like some kind of gloriously gaudy Escher-designed fountain.

* * *

Far below, on the surface of the earth, all sorts of things were happening under its influence. Quite a number of sleeping people were troubled by unsettling, disturbingly enjoyable dreams, and woke up flushed and sweaty with unlooked-for self-knowledge. In Paris, the distant descendant of a famous executioner was seized by a sudden desire to be chained up and fed crêpes. A Rhode Island art student sleepwalked into his studio, and produced a sculpture that would go on to inspire several other improbable adventures. Authors found themselves full of fantastically brilliant ideas, and then had to face the terrifying dread of actually writing the damn things down. An extremely confused nightingale warbled a passable rendition of _Don't Stop Me Now._

Effects were noticed elsewhere, too. In a perfectly pristine vast white office, looking out through a meaningless expanse of window, Gabriel caught sight of an unusual glittering _something_ in the distance and was annoyed to find that he couldn't tell if it was too bright to see properly, or too dark. Or somehow both. Inexplicably, it made him wish he could think of a reason to contact Beelzebub, touch base, maybe suggest they get together for a little forward-thinking synergistic dialogue about the challenges of management.

Gabriel shrugged. One of those ineffable phenomena, he supposed.

* * *

At last, the coiling and boiling energies began to subside, the chain reaction began to slow, the light and darkness stopped orbiting around one another and settled into a new pattern of completion and satisfaction. All boundaries dissipated, the singularity collapsed, and Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves in their comfortable and familiar human shapes, arms and legs and wings wrapped tenderly around one another, gazing into each other's eyes in a warm and lovely afterglow.

They sighed happily, basking in the joy of togetherness. Their repose was short-lived, however, as they realized that they were also plummeting toward the earth at a rate of nine point eight meters per second squared. There followed a sudden, clutching, panicky scramble of wings.

It was fortunate, perhaps, that they'd flown so high, because it gave them quite a long stretch of space to get their wings in order, remember how physics worked, and sort out which bits of it they could use. They managed to turn their free-fall into a long glide, which finally landed them back on Crowley's balcony, where they discovered they could barely keep themselves upright. The much-abused matter of their corporations was willing to be limb-shaped again, but it wasn't going to stand for much more of this treatment.

Crowley's flat contained only one bed. Staggering and wobbling, they tumbled themselves into it.

* * *

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, sounding tentative and unsure of himself.

"Hmm?" Crowley was at least seven-eighths asleep.

"I think that's done it," said Aziraphale in a very small voice.

"Done what?" muttered Crowley drowsily.

"Removed the influence of the spell."

"Oh, that's cool then." Then suddenly Crowley woke up quite a lot, and realized that Aziraphale must now be contemplating all their recent activities from a much more detached and rational point of view. "Wait. Are you—are we—uuuuuhh...hhrrrgggghh...eeeyyyoooowwwww..." he trailed off into a series of unintelligible sounds.

"I know you don't normally like it when I say thank you."

"Nngggghh." And there it was, the utter mortification of having exposed his innermost self so completely. It didn't even have the decency to wait until the next morning, but was attacking him now, when he was too exhausted to defend himself.

"I really cannot express how grateful I am. You were practically holding me together with your bare hands, as it were. My darling, you were magnificent!"

Crowley had no idea what to say to this at all.

"And, well, I was wondering, would you mind if I took a turn holding you, for a little while?"

"Uh. Yeah. I mean, no, I wouldn't mind." Crowley was definitely not crying. It was some kind of side-effect of having reassembled his corporation so quickly, in stressful conditions. Just a bit of random leakage. In fact, most of him felt slightly wrong-way-round.

But Aziraphale was reaching for him. Aziraphale was wrapping reassuring arms around him, and pulling him close. Aziraphale would put him back together properly. Aziraphale knew how to repair fragile old books, and how to assemble complicated cakes. He was in good hands. It was going to be okay.

"I love you, Crowley," said the angel. "You know that, right?"

"Ngk," said the demon. "I, um, love you too. A lot."

"Yes." Aziraphale pressed a soft kiss to the nape of Crowley's neck.

And then they slept.

* * *

* They had.


	7. and, behold, it was very good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the Morning After

Once upon a time, an angel and a demon woke up in a luxurious (though exceedingly rumpled) bed in a Mayfair flat. The demon untangled such limbs as he could locate, and managed to turn off his phone alarm.

"Good morning, angel," the demon said blearily.

"Ugh," said the angel. "Is it really?"

The demon squinted doubtfully around the room, which was, he felt, entirely too bright. "Well, going by the sun instead of the clock, it might still count as brunch time. If we were being generous."

"Hm, not morning. We're not discorporated, and we seem to be conscious, so maybe 'good' still applies." The angel seemed reluctant to open his eyes, but lay more or less entirely still, thoughtfully breathing.

The demon suspected that he had missed something important, the first time around, and looked at his phone again. "Also, it's July."

The angel failed to respond to this, unless you counted a slightly tighter scrunching of the eyelids. "I think I understand now, about the poor humans suffering from dehydration and exhaustion." He groaned feebly.

"I can probably help with some of that, at least," said the demon. "Sit up a bit, will you?" The angel groaned again, but managed to prop himself up on the pillow. His eyes were still closed.

He was finally startled into opening them when Crowley snapped his fingers and the mattress jostled under the sudden weight of an enormous tray full of...well, it looked like mostly beverages. There was a coffee pot, a teapot, a jug of cocoa, a jug of milk, a smaller jug of cream, orange juice, grapefruit juice, pineapple juice, pomegranate juice, tomato juice, some kind of sludgy green smoothie, champagne (in a bucket of ice), sparkling water, plain water, an assortment of cups and mugs, and two aspirin on an elegant little saucer.

" _Aaaarrgh,_ " wailed Crowley, disgusted with himself. He'd wanted some water, maybe the fizzy kind that smelled as though it should taste like something but then didn't. He hadn't intended to summon an entire brunch bar. "Fuck _me._ "

"I have done," said Aziraphale, with just a touch of smugness. "It was very nice, and now I feel like I've been run over by a series of heavily-loaded freight trains. While _they_ were being hit by a meteorite."

"Yeah," agreed Crowley. "It's like my entire quintessence is hung over. My tongue has possibly been coated with industrial adhesives. And if I were human, I'd say I was sunburnt."

"Overexposure to heavenly radiance, I suppose. Awfully sorry about that."

They each picked up an aspirin. Crowley poured himself some coffee, while Aziraphale decided to start with plain water. They held up their cups in a silent, slightly grim gesture of salute, like grizzled veterans who have survived a terrible battle and Seen Too Much, then swallowed the aspirins as they drank.

* * *

They took their time, working their way through the collection of drinks. Gradually, they began to feel better. Aziraphale was on his second cup of tea when he caught up a little, and said "Crowley, did you say it was _July?_ "

"Yeah."

"I can hardly believe we've slept all that time."

Crowley considered this. "I have to wonder, how long did we spend sleeping, and how long were we, um, up in the air?"

"Oh, ah. That is a rather good question, now you mention it. I suppose it did have a sort of timeless quality. While we were. Er."

"And here I thought _to err_ was human," said Crowley, quirking up the corner of his mouth. "Pretty sure the really exciting bits weren't human. Could even have been divine."

Aziraphale peered coyly up at him through lowered eyelashes. "Credit where credit is due, dear boy. Some of it was surely diabolical."

They laughed at that, until Crowley suddenly stopped and looked pensive.

"Something troubling you, Crowley?"

"Just, uh, reconsidering the idea of never mentioning things again, now that it's all over."

Aziraphale was aghast. "Oh no! Are you hurt, after all? If my appallingly selfish loss of control has inflicted some lasting injury, I'll never forgive myself."

"No! No, it's nothing you did while you were caught in the summoning spell. It was afterwards."

"But all we did afterwards was fall asleep."

"Thank Satan, you don't remember it."

"Remember what?"

"A...brief conversation. Nothing important."

"Oh, that! I remember it perfectly well. I told you I loved you, and you said—"

" _Oi!_ "

Aziraphale had relaxed again. "Don't be so silly. If I can survive that much lust, I'm sure you can manage to cope with a bit of lo—"

"Ngggggh, stop it!"

"Shan't," said Aziraphale. "I plan on reminding you that I love you, at suitable intervals." 

"Fine, if it makes you feel better."

"It does."

"But don't expect me to—" Crowley didn't get any farther, because Aziraphale had leaned over and kissed him. Carefully, so as not to disturb the things on the tray. Crowley squeaked in surprise, which made Aziraphale giggle, and then they settled into it and kissed properly for a while. And then improperly for another while.

"I think your sunburn is starting to fade," remarked Aziraphale, looking at him closely. "You're going to be all over freckles."

"I suppose I'll get used to it," said Crowley, trying not to smile at how self-satisfied Aziraphale looked as he reached for the tray again.

* * *

Some while later, they had sampled nearly everything available.

"I like the pomegranate juice," said Aziraphale. "What's the green stuff, do you suppose?"

"Dunno. Bet there's kale in it." Crowley tried a sip, and made a face which caused Aziraphale to narrowly avoid spraying pomegranate juice all over himself. "'S' good," said Crowley with the air of someone determined not to suffer alone. "Lots of, uh, micronutrients. You should try some."

Aziraphale sensibly ignored this, and instead located a pair of champagne flutes. He poured a little orange juice into each, then topped them up with champagne, and handed one to Crowley.

"Regarding lust," he began, and then had to pause for a moment to steady his nerves. "I think I'd like to avoid summoning circles in the future," said the angel a little sheepishly. "But some of the consequences, while unexpected, were, um, quite fun. At least before the excessive supernatural compulsion really got going. And it seemed like you were enjoying yourself as well, some of the time. I mean, I hope you were." Aziraphale looked as though he wanted to wring his hands, but was prevented from doing so by the champagne flute he was holding. He took a deep, calming breath instead. "So, if you have any interest, and of course after we've sufficiently recovered from this, er, incident, what I'm trying to say is, can we maybe do some of that again sometime?"

"Oh, angel." Crowley smiled brilliantly, all teeth and optimism. "Is it possible you're trying to tempt me?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale's face lit up as he realized that was exactly what he was doing. "I suppose I am!"

"And very effectively, too. Anyone would think you'd spent hundreds of years practising." Crowley winked. "Think I could be persuaded, yeah."

The champagne glasses clinked.

* * *

Eventually, they felt revived enough to put on a few clothes and experiment with more ambitious activities such as standing upright and walking around. Surveying the rooms, Aziraphale _tsk-_ ed and _hmmm-_ ed and marveled at the lingering evidence of overpowered miracles.

"You must let me help you sort out your flat. I never meant for it to get so...redecorated."

"Probably an improvement, really. Oh, only I suppose there is the question of some of these extra plants." Crowley looked over the grassy floor of his indoor garden. "Impressive as it may be to keep a complete wildflower meadow in the comfort of my own home, it's more maintainance than I want to bother with. It'll have to go."

At some point in their perambulations, they passed by the coffee table. Sitting innocently on it, under a layer of dried, crumbling rose petals, was Aziraphale's stolen and recovered book. Aziraphale frowned and picked it up, as several stray thoughts collided in his head.

"Hang on a minute," said Crowley, "Did you say that human got the summoning circle from a book he stole from your shop?"

"Yes, the scoundrel!"

"But those people were trying to rob the till, you said. It's not like they were actual book thieves." Crowley tried to remember what Aziraphale had told him, when they were talking on the phone. "So the book must have been sitting right there."

"It...might have been." Aziraphale looked shifty and defensive. "With everyone staying home, all the shops closed, it wasn't as though I was expecting any customers to come in. Obviously, I wouldn't leave a rare book full of dangerous information just sitting around, in normal circumstances."

"And it must have looked interesting enough to be worth stealing." Crowley was thinking it through, putting pieces together, pleased with his deductions. "Was it, perhaps, open to that particular page? Been referred to recently? By the owner of the book?"

Aziraphale clutched the book to his chest, offended. "No! Certainly not!"

"You weren't spending your days in lockdown waiting for bread dough to rise, licking whipped cream off your fingers, and researching methods of naughty demon-summoning?"

"Crowley!"

"I'm sure you have a perfectly reasonable explanation."

Aziraphale ignored Crowley's entirely suggestive and _unreasonable_ eyebrows.*

"As a matter of fact, I do. On an _entirely different_ page from the one the human was using, there's a much simpler ritual for summoning a demon in order to ask it questions." Aziraphale sighed. "I was...toying with the idea that perhaps I could use it to chat with you. And of course, it would allow us to see each other, instead of just talking over the phone."

"Angel," said Crowley with enormous patience and fondness, "You do realize there are fairly simple methods of video chat these days. The humans invented them, they're really quite clever."

"Yes, but they're so fiddly, and they always make you sound like you're talking into a tin can."

"And they're tragically unlikely to go wrong, and force you to find an unsuspecting demon to ravish."

Aziraphale smirked. "You know, Crowley, I _do_ remember that it was you who originally gave me that book."

"Did I? Surely you must be thinking of some other one."

"No, it was quite definitely this one, because you wrote your name in the margin, and told me to summon you if I was ever feeling lonely."

"I never did that!"

"Well, you were admittedly very drunk at the time. You seemed awfully sincere, though." Aziraphale shook his head with a hint of mild regret. "I'm afraid that's probably how that human managed to summon you, specifically. He must have filled in your name in the section marked _intendere digitum ad aliquid_." **

"Let me see that!" Crowley tried to grab the book from Aziraphale's hands, and was thwarted.

"Oh, wait. No, I can't let you look."

"What! Why not?"

"No, you'll just have to take my word for it." Aziraphale had the book in a firm grip, and seemed prepared to defend it to the last.

"Give me that!" They lurched and struggled. For Aziraphale, it was largely a battle between his desire to prevent damage to the book, and his desire to prevent Crowley seeing what was inside. Unfortunately, Crowley knew this, and was quick to take advantage of it for purposes of strategy. Once he had the volume in his grasp, he paged through it with exaggerated care, while Aziraphale scowled and huffed.

"...Oh. I did write my name, didn't I? Proper demonic sigil and everything." Crowley gave a snort of nearly infinite amusement. "But no matter how drunk I may have been at the time, I'm absolutely _certain_ I didn't draw a lot of little hearts around it. In different colors of ink, even."

"No. No, you didn't do that." Aziraphale hid his face in his hands.

"Oh ho ho! But _you_ did! You _did!_ You defaced a book for me, angel!"

* * *

Crowley was fiddling with his phone again, skimming through news reports. "It looks like they've eased up on the lockdown a little, but now that you're here, you're going to have to stay. For two weeks, at least. Rules of the quarantine, and all."

"I suppose it would be prudent."

"We'll have to find some way of entertaining ourselves. So we don't get bored."

"Normally I'd read, of course. Only you don't really have many books, do you?"

"I have this very interesting one, all about summoning demons..." Crowley caught Aziraphale's expression of disgust, and subsided. "Not so much, no. I hear a lot of people have taken up baking, during the lockdown." His tone turned oozingly sincere and persuasive. "Very popular hobby. You can get all sorts of recipes on the internet."

"Quite so. A lovely, domestic way of passing the time."

"My kitchen is at your service, angel. Fully equipped, one owner from new, excellent condition." Crowley gestured magnanimously.

Aziraphale gave it some thoughtful consideration. "That leaves us with just one very important question."

"What's that?"

And there it was. _That_ smile. The bastard one. "What kind of cake would you like to watch me eat first?"

* * *

* Thanks to centuries of diligent practice, he was able to do this smoothly and automatically.

** Latin, _to point the finger at any thing;_ more colloquially, _digits._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then, of course, they went back to bed until October.


End file.
